The Confession in the Cathedral
by Rinnalaiss
Summary: Sherlock was never good with emotions and even worse at expressing them. He finally decides to tell John how he really feels...at John's wedding. Johnlock. preSlash. Now a multichap.
1. The Confession

On the day of John Watson's wedding, it rained. It was not a light shower, no. It poured. _What was that old wives' tale?_ John thought as he stood at the foot of the altar waiting for his bride to appear. _Right. If it rains on your wedding the first seven years of marriage are supposed to be blissful._

Then, the pianist struck up the processional—Pachelbel's Canon in D.

John wished he could say that his breath caught in his throat when he saw Mary walking down the aisle, but he was distracted. Where was Sherlock? He should be there, standing with him as his best man. But he had been acting strange…well, _stranger_ since he broke the news of his engagement. He had become more withdrawn than normal, and John, for the life of him, could not figure out why. In the week leading up to the wedding, Sherlock had gone so far as to ignore John.

Mary had reached the altar and her father placed her hand in John's, kissing her cheek before returning to his pew. She smiled happily at him, and for some reason, he thought she looked several times happier than he felt.

The music stopped, and the priest began the ceremony. "We are gathered here today in the presence of God to witness the union of John Watson and Mary Morstan. If anyone here objects to this union, let him speak now or forever hold his peace."

The church was silent.

The priest turned to John and intoned, "Do you, John Hamish Watson, take this woman, Mary Morstan, to be your lawfully-wedded wife, in good times and bad, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, as long as you both shall live?"

John looked at the priest before turning to the woman before him. "I d—"

Suddenly, the doors at the rear of the church burst open. Sherlock stood in the entryway, clad in his customary coat, breathing slightly labored, as if he had run a great distance. He was soaked through to the skin and droplets of rain fell from his curls onto his face.

"John! Wait! There's something you must know!"

John looked at him, his facial expression a mixture of concern and annoyance. "Sherlock, what in God's name-"

Sherlock strode purposefully down the aisle. "John, you can't do this."

John ground his teeth. "Sherlock, for once in your life, would you stop being so selfish? Mary and I are getting married. You're interrupting it right now, as a matter of fact! Can't you just hold your tongue for five minutes and stand up here next to me as my best man like I wanted?"

Sherlock's lips pursed as his eyes darted about the room. "I can't... I get this feeling inside... DAMN THESE PEDESTRIAN EMOTIONS." He kicked at some flower arrangements for emphasis. "How can you just stand there in that silly tux, holding her hand, and ready to bind yourself to a lifetime of _dull?_ Dull, John! Boring."

"Again with the boring," John muttered.

"How can you do this? What about our partnership? Our flat? Are you just going to give that up?" Sherlock shouted.

"Because!" John shouted right back. He took a deep breath to calm himself down. "Because, Sherlock, it was time for me to grow up. I met a nice girl. That's what people do. They grow up, and they allow their friends to grow up."

Sherlock started pacing. "This has nothing to do with growing up!"

John folded his arms. "What then? What has this got to do with?"

Sherlock froze. Slowly, he turned to face John. His lips twitched in an effort to say something he wasn't sure he could bring himself to. He closed his eyes, resigning himself. When he opened them again, his icy blue eyes bored into the doctor's, expressing his feelings in ways he had so much trouble articulating.

"I love you."

Sherlock spun on his heel and exited the church before John and the rest of the stunned congregation recovered from their shock.

* * *

A/N: Got this idea from a post on Tumblr regarding a rumor about the final moments of the Series 3 finale. I might do one more chapter with John and Sherlock talking it out if there's sufficient demand for it.

Constructive criticism welcome!

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.


	2. The Fallout, Part 1

John's face looked like someone clipped him with a frying pan. It was not until the door at the rear of the church slammed shut behind the retreating Sherlock that he snapped out of his shock.

"Sherlock!" he called out. He was halfway up the aisle before he realized what he was doing. He turned back to Mary, who was still on the altar, and twitched as if he was about to move back to her but thought differently. For a few moments, all he could do was chew his bottom lip while bouncing on his toes and eyes darting between Mary and the doors.

He reached out to his fiancée in what he hoped was a placating manner. "Five—just, just give me five minutes. SHERLOCK!" he called as he sprinted out of the sanctuary.

It was raining so hard by this point that within roughly ten seconds of stepping outside, John was soaked through, but he didn't care. He needed to find Sherlock.

What John did not expect to happen was to run straight into him, almost knocking the both of them onto the ground.

"Sherlock, what the _hell_ was that?" John demanded as they righted themselves.

Sherlock was not looking at him. "Don't you have a wedding to be at? Remember? The one I'm too selfish to recall?"

John grimaced. His words sounded so harsh coming out of Sherlock's mouth. Maybe he himself was too harsh.

"Well you can't just expect me to ignore what just happened in there!" John exclaimed.

"And why not?" Sherlock spun to face him. Probably for the first time since John met him, he saw pure, raw, and unadulterated emotion in Sherlock's eyes. "You've been so spectacularly ignorant of my feelings before now!" He continued.

"Sp—_spectacularly ignorant_?" John spluttered. "That's rich, coming from the man who didn't know that the earth goes around the sun or that Irene _bloody_ Adler was just leading him on! The man who faked his death without any thought of the consequences it would have on his friends!"

"And there's Exhibit A!" Sherlock countered, heatedly. They were almost nose to nose now. "How can you possibly be so unobservant as to not realize that I did that to protect you? That I did it because for the first time in my entire life, I cared about someone else's well-being, that I could not bear to see you hurt and be responsible for it! That was a clear enough declaration of my affections, I should think!"

"Couldn't bear to see me hurt," John repeated, scoffing. "You, Sherlock Holmes, are full of bullshit!" He shoved Sherlock in the chest for emphasis. Sherlock let him. "How, can you deduce, did watching you jump off that building affect me? I couldn't eat! I couldn't sleep!" These were punctuated with more shoves. "I went back to my therapist and she was _this close_ to bringing you back from the dead so she could kill you herself for completely fucking up all the progress I made since coming home from FUCKING AFGHANISTAN!" Another shove.

"Are you quite through?"

"Oh, I'm just getting started," John ground out. "I have been attracted to you from day one, but no, you go and perpetuate the illusion that you are married to your work. So I try and move on. You ever wonder about all those women I dated? _I was trying to get over you goddamnit. _And then came Irene Adler. You were so wrapped up in her frankly overbearing sexuality that you couldn't see just how transparently jealous I was!"

"John—"

"You were _dead_, Sherlock! I've already gone over this with you, but GOD. You. Were. Dead. I was a wreck. Mary pulled me out of that. Hell, the reason I'm still alive is because of her! My world righted itself again, and as soon as that happened, you came back and expected everything to be as it was when you left! You knocked me off my axis. Again!"

"John!"

"And now you come bursting in the church on my wedding day, drop the atomic bomb, and expect me to ignore it! What do you want me to—mmmffff"

Sherlock grabbed John's lapels and forcefully pressed their lips together.

John's eyes fluttered closed and he felt his body responding to the very thing he waited nearly three years for.

Then he realized where he was. He was standing outside the church where his fiancée was waiting, soaked to the skin, and kissing Sherlock Holmes.

They broke apart for air, and Sherlock rested his forehead against John's. "Come back to Baker Street with me," he muttered.

John sighed. "I can't."

Sherlock froze, then stepped back, a stone-cold mask in place.

"You have to understand," John pleaded. "I came here today with a promise, prepared to bind myself to that woman waiting for me. I can't… I won't go back on that promise. I am a man of my word. You know that much."

There was a tense silence.

Then suddenly Sherlock was gone, marching away from him. He did not look back, and John did not follow him.

When John reentered the church, the nervous chatter abruptly stopped. John looked up at the altar. Mary was nowhere to be seen.

"Oh no," he whispered to himself. As he jogged up to the front, he felt the heated glares of her family.

An angry looking bridesmaid met him. "She's in there," she said coldly, pointing to the vestibule behind the altar.

John took a deep breath and prepared himself for an even more unpleasant conversation than the one he just had.

* * *

A/N: Phew! Talk about emotion! Mary's reaction is next! Thank you so much for all your lovely support! You're fabulous!

Disclaimer: See first chapter.


	3. The Fallout, Part 2

John was not entirely sure what he expected when he entered the vestibule. Well, to be perfectly honest, he half expected something large and heavy to be chucked at his head when he entered.

That did not happen.

Mary's back was to him as she fiddled with a golden cross that was on the priest's desk. A stray thought entered John's mind, tempting him to count the buttons all the way down the back of her lacy gown. Her veil was off.

He broke the silence. "We should probably go back out there."

She scoffed, "Really?" There was a slightly wet note to it. "John," she turned to him. Her eyes were red and puffy, and there were tear tracks running down her cheeks.

Feeling terrible for having made her cry, John enveloped Mary in his arms. "It's alright. I've cleared everything up. We can go back and get married now."

Mary pulled away from him. "How can you possibly say that?"

"Mary, what—"

"Your flatmate comes bursting into the church just as you are about to agree to the vows, declares his…undying love for you, and you followed him! You could have just let it be and maybe addressed it later, but you _left_!"

John sighed. "What was I supposed to do, Mary? You know how Sherlock gets. He says things, and left to his own devices he—"

She was getting angry now. "Actually, John, no. No, I don't know '_how Sherlock gets_', because I don't actually know Sherlock! I've met him what—once? Twice? Certainly no more than five times! He insulted me the first time and ignored me all the others, except to make some snide comment or other under his breath!"

She started pacing.

"Mary," John tried to interrupt.

"I don't get it John," she finally let out, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. "Was I not good enough for you?

John was getting a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Mary, please don't say that—you're the best thing that's ever happened to me!"

Mary let out a self-deprecating laugh. "I wish I could believe that. We were happy once. Perfect, even, I think. Then Sherlock miraculously rose from the dead, and things changed. I didn't want to believe it. But then you started to be with him more often, cutting our dates short so you could go and adventure with him. Things got better when I got pregnant. You were devoted again, and I stopped worrying—thought we could salvage it. But with the miscarriage…" She drifted off.

"Oh, Mary," John whispered as he watched her bite her lip and look up at the ceiling, clearly willing herself not to cry again.

She took a deep breath. "I just… I don't know if I could do it—every day, comparing myself to him and wondering if I was just second best."

John grasped her gently, but firmly on the shoulders. Looking her in the eye, he asserted, "You would not be second best. You _are not_ second best."

She closed her eyes and shook her head. "Don't lie to me, John. And don't lie to yourself. I know I can't compare." She worked the diamond solitaire off her finger and placed it in his hand. "Which…which is why I think you should have this back."

John looked at it, stunned. "Mary, please don't do this." He was begging. He could not believe he was begging.

Tears were falling freely from her eyes. "I have to. I can't live a lie, and I won't keep house for you while you go off and have an affair with another man."

John shook his head vehemently. "I would _never_ cheat on you."

"Oh, please!" she scoffed. "You couldn't cut through the sexual tension even if you had a butcher's knife! You can deny it all you like, but it's as plain as the nose on my face."

"Mary, the priest is still here. Let's just get married and forget this whole thing ever happened."

"John, just STOP IT!" Mary winced at her raised voice. "I've made my decision. Please respect it and don't make a scene."

John's final hopes were dashed. "Are you completely certain?"

Mary took another deep breath and nodded, lips pursed to try and keep her chin from quivering. "Yes."

John felt his throat tighten and his eyes prickle. Things had not fallen apart this badly since Sherlock…left.

"Good-bye, John," Mary sniffed. Then she exited the vestibule quietly.

Looking back, John always regretted the cowardice he exhibited when he left the church, sneaking out a side exit. He would not, _could not_ face the congregation's accusing stares again.

He trudged back to Baker Street in the rain. It was a bit of a distance as the church was chosen for its proximity to Mary's flat rather than his. He stayed in the downpour, rather than take the tube back—it was a type of penance, he figured. He deserved the slop and ruined tux (and probably the eventual head cold from the rain) for causing, albeit indirectly, the fiasco that spoiled the wedding.

The blocks passed in a haze. When John finally reached 221B Baker Street, he ascended the stairs in a zombie-like state. Mrs. Hudson was not home yet, and for that he was relieved. He was not fit for any sort of conversation she would bring up after witnessing Sherlock's exclamation.

Sherlock was not home either, John noticed when he flopped into his chair after balling up his soaked tuxedo jacket and throwing it in the corner. Eventually, he removed Mary's engagement ring from his pocket and just turned it around in his hands. He had no idea how long he just sat there, just twisting the ring around. As his thoughts raced in his head, he became agitated until he got up and started pacing.

Suddenly, he spun and hurled it at the wall with an anguished roar. It ricocheted off _that goddamn yellow smiling face_ and landed somewhere amongst Sherlock's rubbish.

John stormed into the kitchen and tore through the cabinets. Finally finding the bottle he was looking for, he forewent a glass and returned to his chair, taking a long pull from it. The whiskey burned down his throat, but he gave no reaction other than taking another long gulp.

He rubbed his forehead, elbow propped up on his knee. How did this happen? Why did it happen to him? He drank from the bottle again. In the back of his head, a tiny, rational voice (that sounded a bit like Sherlock, but he did not want to think about _that_ right now) was telling him that drinking in his present mental state was more than a bit not good.

John was quite buzzed at this point. He took another swig and his emotions finally hit him like a train.

He buried his face in his hands and wept.

* * *

A/N: Holy crap guys, your response has been absolutely incredible. Thank you SO MUCH for the reviews and all the favorites and alerts. I can't even believe it. I have over 850 hits for this. You all are amazing. Seriously.

Now this is still a WIP. I'm thinking it will take three, maybe four more chapters to resolve everything. If you have any suggestions, please let me know!

Also, I've changed the secondary genre to angst, because, well, it's pretty angsty and it's going to stay that way for a bit, I think.

Please leave a review! I love getting feedback and if you have any constructive criticism, let me know! It's the only way I can grow as a writer.

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.


	4. Interlude: Sherlock

Sherlock sat in the muck that was the southern bank of the Thames underneath Battersea Bridge, tide lapping up against his shoes. The ruined clothing he could deal with, but he could not deal with returning to Baker Street defeated and with his tail between his legs. No. That was beneath him.

(He ignored the fact that traveling across London covered in filth was at times also beneath him.)

Gravel crunched and Sherlock turned to the sound. "Oh, it's you," he huffed, and turned back to the water.

Molly, all done up for John's _wedding_, looked at him.

"You can tell Mycroft to mind his own business," Sherlock bit out.

She looked at him in shock. "He—but how did you—?"

"Oh please. You're still holding your mobile, which has GPS capabilities, but you're demonstrably incapable of tracking me on your own. And you walked all the way here in the rain by yourself. What? Mycroft couldn't separate himself from whatever crisis he's dealing with to send you a car?"

"Haven't you been horrible enough for one day?" Molly asked, accusatory.

Sherlock flopped in the mud. "Not you, too," he pouted.

"Of course me too!" she exclaimed. "I mean, what did you honestly expect? I realize you have the emotional range of a teaspoon, but even you should know that's not something you confess to someone at their wedding to another person!

"Look, Sherlock," she continued. "You're my friend. I care about you, and I've been worried about you ever since you asked my help to fake your death. I just want to see you be happy. You should know that Mary called off the wedding. John didn't get married."

Molly could see Sherlock perk up as she said that and he shot her a look. Though he was trying to hide it, it was the most hopeful look she had ever seen him wear. She sat down next to him, not caring about her dress.

Hesitatingly, unsure of how he would react, Molly placed a hand on his shoulder. When he didn't brush her off, she said, "We both know he's romantically interested in you and that's half the battle won right there. You'll need patience for the next bit since John'll be skittish from this whole episode, but I know you can bring him around."

Molly smiled and nudged him with her elbow. "You've got this."

"Are you certain?" Sherlock asked.

She nodded her head vigorously. "You bet your life on it."

Sherlock leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. "Thank you, Molly Hooper."

Molly nudged him again. "Well, what are you waiting for? Go on; get going! You've got some hard work ahead of you!"

Sherlock leapt up, and Molly was hard-pressed to keep from smiling as broadly as he was. Once he was out of her sight, she fished out her phone and hit the redial button.

She put it to her ear and waited for the voice on the other end.

"Mycroft Holmes, after what I just did for you, you had better be sending a car to come pick me up because I'll be damned if I'm walking across the city in this mess on these heels. Do not make me pay for a cab."

* * *

It was late by the time Sherlock got back to Baker Street. All the lights were out, and there wasn't even the faint glow of whatever late night program Mrs. Hudson usually watched coming from her bedroom window.

When he entered the flat, he immediately noticed three things: there was a new chip in the wall, John was passed out in his chair, and the place reeked of alcohol. A second glance told him the odor came from the spilled bottle of Jameson at John's feet.

Lovely.

Well. Sherlock certainly wasn't going to drag John to his bedroom upstairs. That venture would have them both tumbling down the stairs, sustaining potentially serious injuries.

His room it was, then.

With a great groan of effort, Sherlock hoisted John over his shoulders. John mumbled something that Sherlock couldn't decipher.

Sherlock made his way to his bedroom without any difficulty or bumps or bruises to John. After depositing him gently on the bed, Sherlock removed John's shoes. Then he stood there, debating whether or not to remove the rest of John's clothes.

Eventually he agreed with the side that argued that sleeping while black-out drunk in soaking wet clothes was a bad idea. He began removing John's shirt, thinking that he'd much rather be removing John's clothing under vastly different circumstances…preferably while John was awake. Sherlock put John in a flannel shirt before quickly removing his dress trousers, not trusting his hands to keep from wandering.

After pulling the blanket up to John's chin and ensuring that the bin was nearby. Sherlock just stood there, unsure of what to do. Then, very quickly, he pressed his lips to John's forehead and left, shutting the light.

* * *

A/N: Well, it's been a while! I've been in the mountains since the beginning of July with no internet access. Here's a little fluff as an apology for the delay. I had originally planned for the dialogue in the beginning to be between Sherlock and Lestrade, but then I decided that Sherlock would have had a deeper connection to Molly after _Reichenbach Fall_ and that the conversation would make more sense coming from her.

As always, the response has been absolutely overwhelming and I love the feedback! Let me know what you think!


	5. The Morning After

When John awoke, it took him several minutes to convince himself that the agonizing pain in his head was proof of life, rather than death. He could not decide whether it felt like it was being crushed in a vice or if someone was taking a hammer and chisel to it. Moving slowly to the edge of the bed, John tried to sit up.

The world spun.

John groaned, willing the contents of his stomach to remain where they belonged. When the urge to vomit passed, he took stock of his surroundings. Something caught his eye: a poster of the Periodic Table of Elements. He was in Sherlock's room. The instant he realized this, he froze. His last recollection was…right. The wedding.

He was getting married, but he was in Sherlock's room. Why was he in Sherlock's room? John slowly retraced his steps. He had his stag party, managed to not get completely hammered, and made it to the wedding on time and sober. He saw Mary—beautiful, beautiful Mary. They grasped hands and began their vows. Something happened. What happened? Sherlock. Sherlock happened. He burst into the church and…

…declared his love for him.

John slowly massaged his temples. Then he tried to stand. His head spun so violently he had to sit back down. When he regained his equilibrium, he tried again, this time making a valiant effort into the en suite bath. He flinched when he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror—he looked like death warmed over. Running the tap, John splashed cool water on his face to try and combat the bloodshot eyes sunken into dark circles. Then his stomach heaved.

Thankfully, John made it to the toilet. It would have been embarrassing if he hadn't. On top of everything that happened the day before, the last thing he needed was to make a mess in Sherlock's bathroom. Satisfied that he would not need to return to the toilet if he moved, he stood and slowly made his way to the shower to turn it on. Although he was still very hung over, John's shower was just as short as it usually was—a habit formed when he was back in the army.

When John exited the shower and toweled off, he realized he had a problem. He had no clothes to change into and he did not really want to go back to his room in nothing but a towel (also, stairs might still be a challenge). Finally, the chill in the bathroom made his decision for him. He put his boxers back on and slipped into Sherlock's robe (the second best robe, of course).

He cautiously emerged from the room, listening for any sounds that would indicate whether or not Sherlock was home. John was not entirely sure why he was in Sherlock's room and not still slouched in his chair, but it was not entirely inconceivable that he stumbled his way in there in a drunken stupor. He hoped that Sherlock was not home. John did not think he could bear the man's intense scrutiny—especially not when he was wearing the consulting detective's bathrobe and not much else!

John crept slowly through the hall and into the kitchen, before breathing a sigh of relief. There was no sign of Sherlock—no odd sounds or smells, no new experiments on the kitchen table. It appeared he was alone, and to be frank, that was how he wanted it. He could not face Sherlock. Not yet. Not after the fiasco at the church, not after drinking God knows how much, not after spending the night in Sherlock's bed, not after doing something so intimate as wearing his bathrobe.

Then his eyes caught it. It was so common, so _domestic_, he almost missed it. But then again, it was because it was so domestic he saw it. "Domestic" was not a typical word at Baker Street.

It was a teacup—a teacup full and steaming, and placed on the side table within easy reach of anyone sitting in his chair. He always took breakfast in that chair. Actually, he did a lot in that chair, he mused as he drifted to it in a trance. In a life that rarely adhered to a routine, he seemed to have created one revolving around that beat up piece of leather.

John's brow furrowed as his fingertips graze the rim of the cup. But how—? And there he was. Sherlock was stretched out on his couch with a newspaper in front of his face, but John could tell he was not reading it. John just stood there, frozen and mind completely blank. He almost forgot how to breathe.

"The tea's getting cold. Drink it." Sherlock's eyes never left the paper.

John blinked, snapping out of his stupor. "What?" It was not his most intelligent response ever.

Sherlock's response was rapid-fire as usual. "Judging by the dark circles under bloodshot eyes, the empty bottle of whiskey that was mostly full before it left the cabinet last night, and the new chip in the wall, I deduced that you would be significantly impaired this morning. And since your showers are always and without fail four minutes and seventeen seconds, I made tea. Now drink it." At this command, Sherlock's eyes left the paper and bore into John's.

It took John a few moments to comprehend what Sherlock had said, then he shook his head. "I can't deal with this right now."

He was out of the room and up the stairs before Sherlock could even respond.

Sherlock heard the upstairs bedroom door shut and he slowly sat up. What a complete and utter failure. That did not go nearly as planned. He pressed his lips to steepled fingers. John was supposed to take the tea and sit down. Then, they were supposed to talk about what he had said and then John would agree to enter into some sort of romantic arrangement. No, what had happened was not even on the same continent as what he had planned.

Molly said that he had to—what was it?—woo John. Well, how long was that supposed to take? A week? Sherlock pondered this. Yes. A week seemed to him to be an acceptable amount of time.

In a week's time, everything would be right in the world.

* * *

A/N: Alright, that took me much longer than I had anticipated and I profusely apologize for the, gosh, 5 month wait. I was working essentially 80 hours a week with student teaching and my "me time" was mostly sleep time. I hope this little fluff-dusting makes up for it!

Disclaimer: See first chapter.


	6. Desperate Times

Unfortunately for Sherlock, a week was _not_ nearly enough time to succeed in his goals. In fact, in the week following that disastrous breakfast, John made a point to avoid being in the same space as Sherlock. He took extra shifts at the clinic and at the hospital, and Sherlock only ever saw John when he entered or exited the flat. Even Mrs. Hudson was being cold to him. Well, as cold as Mrs. Hudson could be, that is.

Sherlock was getting frustrated. John was being incomprehensibly adverse to Sherlock's plans. He did not understand why John was being so difficult. John had admitted that he was attracted to him. He was released from his obligation to marry that… that woman, so he was free to enter into a relationship with Sherlock. What was stopping him? It made no sense. After two weeks, four days, ten hours, and twenty-three minutes, Sherlock decided it was time for drastic actions.

* * *

It was 5:30am and nearing the end of John's shift in the Emergency Room. Luckily for him, it was a quiet night—the other doctor assigned to the overnight shift had suddenly called in sick. Fortunately, there were only five cases of anaphylaxis, three of alcohol poisoning, and one heart attack victim who was pronounced dead on arrival. It was actually an unnaturally quiet night.

Raised voices carried from down the hall.

"Are you really that incompetent? That's not a shadow on the x-ray. The bone is clearly broken. You must be having some sort of sexual relationship with your supervisor because there is no way you were hired on your own merit."

John froze and closed his eyes. "No." He did not have the energy for this.

A shaky female voice drifted toward him. "Sir, I'm going to have to insist—"

"No! I insist to see the physician on duty. Not a medical student, not an assistant. The doctor should at least not be a complete moron."

John took a deep breath and entered the room. "I can take it from here, thank you."

The young woman shot him a relieved look and scurried from the room.

Exasperated, John turned back to Sherlock, who was sitting stiffly on the bed. It had been weeks since the two had been in the same room, and John took note of the changes wrought in his flatmate. None of them would have been obvious to the random observer, but after years of living and working together, John knew what cues to look for.

There was a tick about half an inch down from the left corner of Sherlock's mouth that John had not seen since the early days of their friendship. The creases around his eyes that had over time softened his expressions once again closed his face off. Sherlock's face was in fact entirely closed off for the first time in John's recent memory. Finally there was the swollen wrist that he was gingerly holding. John had completed this inspection in roughly five seconds. While he still could not hold a candle to Sherlock's deductive speed, John could certainly hold his own.

He gently, but deftly, grasped Sherlock's wrist to examine it, careful not to jostle it. He caught a flash of pain on his face, but it was gone in an instant. John grimaced in apology before setting the arm down in favor of examining the x-ray.

"Well you were wrong about one thing."

Sherlock's eyes shot to his and narrowed. Whether in curiosity or disdain, John could not tell. "What?"

John made slightly exaggerated movements to put the x-ray back in its protective envelope. "Your wrist isn't broken—just a hairline fracture. I'll have to wrap it and put it into a brace to immobilize it, but it doesn't need resetting or surgery to repair it."

With his back turned and rummaging through the cabinets in the examining room, John did not see Sherlock roll his eyes. He then made quick work of wrapping Sherlock's wrist and asked, "How did this happen?"

"Suspect," Sherlock answered quickly and looking away. "I was giving chase and… slipped going over a fence."

John looked up from his work incredulously. "You _slipped_ chasing a suspect over a _fence_?"

Sherlock looked back to him without moving his head. "It was a rather tall fence."

The doctor folded his arms. "If the fence was so tall, how come you don't have any other injuries?"

Sherlock huffed. "I landed wrong."

John nodded. "Okay, then. What sort of case are you working on?"

Quickly standing up, Sherlock examined the new brace around his wrist. "Not something you'd be familiar with, considering you haven't been in contact with Lestrade in weeks and you clearly haven't had time to read the papers. The cousin did it though." All this was said in his typical rapid-fire manner.

"Hang on, I'm not finished with you yet!" John blocked the exit to the examining room. Sherlock just shifted weight on his feet.

Continuing, John pointed to him. "You are to keep that thing wrapped for three weeks, except to shower, after which we are coming back here to get it x-rayed again. If you're in any pain you're to take 500mg of ibuprofen, and not any more than that. I won't keep you from taking cases, but for God's sake, take it easy!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Mummy, I'll play nice and calmly with the neighbors."

John exhaled emphatically. "Don't you give me that, Sherlock. You go out on your own and you break your wrist."

"Hairline fracture," Sherlock corrected with a slight upturn of his lips.

"Whatever!" John exclaimed. "Just… Just go sign the release forms and wait in the lobby while I collect my things. Shift's over and we can go back to Baker Street."

He turned and strode down the hall. He did not see the satisfied smirk on Sherlock's face. When John entered the locker room where the hospital staff stored their belongings, he quickly strode to his assigned unit. After exchanging his white lab coat for his raincoat (it had been raining when he left the flat some 12 hours before), he shut the door and leaned on the cool metal.

What was going on?

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A/N: Well, there you go! Now that I have a better handle on where this is going, I'd say that there are two, maybe three chapters left. I want to thank everyone for the wonderful feedback I've been receiving. Your reviews mean a lot to me! Please don't hesitate to drop me a line in the comments box!

Disclaimer: Not mine.


	7. The Case

*****PLEASE READ/POTENTIAL TRIGGER WARNING: I HAVE UPPED THE RATING TO "M" FOR GORE. I don't think it's any worse than any of the police procedurals on tv at the moment— I'd probably rank it around the level of "Supernatural". BUT, if bloody crime scenes make you squeamish, proceed with caution. (I'd rather be safe than sorry)*** **

John and Sherlock settled into a tenuously polite routine following Sherlock's hospital visit. Every morning, Sherlock was up before John with a freshly brewed cup of tea waiting for when the doctor came down to breakfast. John would then sit in his chair to read the paper, occasionally commenting on some story or other. Sherlock would respond, "dull", and John would roll his eyes.

Sherlock continued to bring his experiments home, noting that John was reverting back to a fond shake of the head when discovering body parts in varying stages of decay in the refrigerator. For Sherlock, it was a welcome change from the frustrated growls that met his ears immediately following The Wedding That Wasn't.

Then, one day some six months later, they caught the case.

Lestrade called them in quite early on in the investigation. The police had been led to a body in a mansion in Kensington that had been abandoned for years and that was rumored to be haunted. Ordinarily, it might have been written off as squatters breaking and entering and then perhaps getting into an argument over payment for drugs or some such thing.

It was not the manner of death itself that was curious. While a slashed throat would indicate a fast, powerful killer and a personal, intimate kill, its uniqueness lay in the physical evidence left at the crime scene. The body was in the middle of the room and far from any piece of furniture and there was no trace of the killer at all—no fingerprints, no fibers, no single strand of hair nor speck of dirt. What baffled Lestrade and his team was the blood spatter from the wound.

"See, look," Lestrade gestured. "The blood—"

"Yes, I see it," Sherlock interrupted. "The volume of blood is typical for such a deep wound and the array is typical of the length. However, there is no empty patch to indicate where the killer stood, which also means there will be no evidence of blood on the killer's clothes to match to this victim if, indeed, the killer is caught. Intriguing."

They were silent for a beat, and then John turned to Lestrade. "Someone mentioned that there are stories of this house being haunted."

Lestrade scoffed. "Load of rubbish, if you ask me. Sure, people've died here—it's old! Nothing strange about people dying in their sleep. Sure, there's local legend that says that a lady who lived here in the 1890s was suffocated, but those stories sound more like urban legend than something that requires police involvement. Not like this poor bastard," he added, gesturing to the corpse.

John bent down to examine the body. The man was young—appearing to be in his late-20s or early-30s. Glassy blue eyes stared unseeingly from behind thick-framed glasses, which John noticed did not have prescription lenses. Those eyes, combined with his sandy-blond hair (the tips now drenched in blood), made John decide that the victim would have been considered almost conventionally good looking.

Sherlock squatted down across from him as John leaned forward to get a closer look at the wound. "What can you see?" he asked.

John prodded the body with gloved hands. "The throat was slashed from ear to ear in a right-to-left fashion, indicating that the assailant was left-handed. It curves in a very slight upward fashion, so we know that the killer was also taller than our victim." He inserted a finger into the wound and continued, "The blade cut deep—through the major arteries and esophagus to the spinal column. The incision is too deep to be a scalpel, so it's maybe a hunting knife, or something military issue."

Sherlock nodded. "Good. Very good. What can you tell about our victim?"

John scooted down do that he was level with the torso. "The clothes…" John trailed off, taking in the faded gray jeans that were cut close to the leg and the pale green and white striped, button-down cardigan over a graphic tee with a geometric pattern. "Hmm…" He then picked up the victim's left hand, examined it a few moments, and then picked up the right.

He motioned to the middle finger of the victim's right hand. "There's a callous here, at the first joint facing the second finger. That, combined with the black smudges on his other fingers, leads me to believe that he was an artist—probably preferred working with charcoal." John paused and looked at Sherlock. "But what would an artist be doing in a Kensington mansion? And one that was boarded up when police arrived?"

Sherlock's eyes glittered in excitement. "Exactly!" He then leaped to his feet. "Well! Nothing more to see here! Lestrade, text me when you've talked to his next of kin." Then he was gone from the room.

John rolled his eyes and stood up at a much slower pace. His knees just weren't working the way they used to—too many injuries from his army days adding up. After divesting himself of the latex gloves, he wandered outside the building to the street where Sherlock was waiting for him. John fell into step next to him and they ambled down the sidewalk away from the mansion and the flashing police lights. He immediately noticed that Sherlock's pace was much slower than usual, but as it appeared that the consulting detective was not in any apparent pain, John decided he didn't care. It was a nice change.

"So, what do you think of this one?" John asked, not looking at Sherlock, but rather taking in the scenery of the street.

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back. "I think we're dealing with someone very clever. They would have needed to get themselves and the victim into a boarded up house without an obvious sign. Furthermore, the killer had to slash his throat in a way that didn't disturb the spatter trajectory and then exit the building in a, once again, unobtrusive fashion. This person is a professional and very clever. I can't wait to meet him."

John turned to Sherlock, "But everything you just said—it's so improbable! How can a person do all that and leave no evidence?"

Sherlock just gave him a look.

John heaved a sigh. "Ok, fine. You could probably do it. Mycroft has people who could probably do it. Fine it's potentially doable." He paused for a brief moment. "But what about the house? Are we just going to ignore the fact that it might be haunted?"

"Oh, don't be so simple-minded! You can't possibly expect me to think you believe that nonsense!"

Shoving his hands into his coat pockets, John shrugged. "I believe in God, don't I? And Satan. Why shouldn't I think that there are angels and demons serving them both respectively? There are things in this world—phenomena—that even you can't explain."

Sherlock didn't respond, and John was impressed. Earlier in their friendship, Sherlock would have made some snide, snarky comment along the lines of only the uneducated were that superstitious and that science had an explanation for everything. That Sherlock was keeping his silence, even though John could see the amount if patience it took him to do so, was very telling. To John, it looked like Sherlock was growing up.

To Sherlock, it was an attempt to show that he could be accepting of John's…quirks. It was all part of his Getting John Into Bed master plan.

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A/N: Well, remember how I said last chapter there would only be two chapters left? It looks like there's going to be a few more than that, but not much more, since I plan to tie everything up when this case wraps up.

Apologies for the wait—writing and researching a thesis and graduating college will do that. As always, please refer to the disclaimer in the first chapter. To those of you who think the crime scene sounds familiar, I borrowed the set-up from an episode of Castle (but that's the only familiarity you'll find.) If you have questions, comments, or concerns, drop me a line in a review! I love the feedback!


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